One thing I have done from time to time in these articles is make the assertion that my mind works in strange and mysterious ways, making connections that would not be obvious to the average dude or dudette walking along Broadway or Rehov Yaffo. For example, I’m taking out the garbage and my progress towards the dumpster is impeded by a car with a ‘lamed’ on its roof, meaning that the person behind the wheel is a student driver. Even if the car weren’t so identified, you could tell right away who is behind the wheel, not just from the tentative, slow motion of the vehicle in question, but the look of panic on the neophyte’s face as the car goes around the bend. And I think about Alexis de Tocqueville, the French aristocrat who visited the United States in the 1830’s to observe life across the Atlantic and to figure out what was going on with these Americans – as in how did they live and why were they so different from Europeans – and then to write about what he learned in his classic Democracy in America. We need someone like him these days to help us decipher the behavior patterns of average Israelis, which is so different from life in The States, not an easy task – if you ask me. My modest efforts are a halting step in that direction, but I’m not in the Frenchman’s league.

One thing I will not miss after we have moved down the block and around the corner will be this constant convoy of cars with the ‘lamed’ on top. It’s not a matter of always being on the lookout for a young person behind the wheel who is just learning how to drive. I would accept the inconvenience and ‘take one for the team’ if I thought it would be doing any good for the wellbeing of our country. But I’m afraid it won’t. What is more likely to happen is that these neophytes, having passed their road tests and gained confidence in their ability, will simply join the ranks of overaggressive Israeli drivers. In the time it takes to turn on the ignition, everything these fledgling drivers will have learned about the rules of the road and traffic safety will be stowed away in the glove compartment.

We can go on all day about the laws, the rules, and the customs that seem to define life here in The Land, but there is something else going on that defies these neat sociological categories. It’s pride of place. As best as I can figure out, when the locals get behind the wheel of a car, they now own the keys to the kingdom, and they will decide what the rules are. I own it and I’m in charge! I hate to put it so crudely, but it’s almost like a male dog scoping out a fire hydrant. Mine! However, this visceral need to show possession takes many forms, one of which is why shiputzim (renovation) is such a big business in this country.

Within a week of our agreeing to sell our apartment, we got a call from the buyer. Can he come over and check out something? Sure. Within a few hours he arrived, accompanied by two guys. (We assumed, correctly, that his wife would not be with them.) What were they measuring? The plan was to rip up all the floor tiles and replace them. Why? Because they are not all of a piece. Which leads me to the topic for this post,

Tiles and Styles

‘Standard issue,’ that’s the best way to describe it. During the early days, when Israel was still wet behind the ears, there wasn’t much choice in a lot of things. For example, much of the clothing, especially for kibbutzniks, was made by one company, Ata, and water closets for toilets pretty much all came from Plasson. But the topic du jour is floor tiles, known in The Land as balatot. Throughout the length and breadth of The Land, there were, and still are, the ubiquitous cream-colored tiles with little splotches of brown – manufactured in the hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions by some Israeli firm. (And if anybody out there knows the company’s name, please let me know, so I can share it with anybody who’s interested.) Not beautiful, not ugly, just there, made to last (in other words, ‘standard issue’). You’ll still see them in stairways and landings in older buildings everywhere. They grace the apartments of friends in Ma’ale Adumim. We still have these tiles on our upstairs floors, as bland and functional as when they were slapped down forty years ago. On our first floor, where friends and neighbors get entertained, that’s something else. The geniuses who had the apartment before us replaced these tiles, but they used the wrong kind, outdoor balatot, the sturdy non-descript kind you’d put on your patio. Ours are in good shape, but they would need to be steam-cleaned to return them to their original color, whatever that is.

By the time Tomer Peretz had finished waving his magic wand, redesigning our kitchen and bathrooms, we had lots of beautiful tiles bedecking our floors, but, as I said, they are not ‘all of a piece,’ as in ‘the same.’ Never bothered me, nor Barbara, nor Natania, nor anybody else who showed up to enjoy our hospitality. When I mentioned to friends that the owners-to-be were planning shiputzim, what I invariably got was a quizzical look. Your apartment is in great shape; what are they planning on doing? Answer: something, anything, because they can, because they are reacting to an inner urge to do so, the same way that a canine companion would – if you get my drift.

There are things I would consider if I were moving in with six kids, as this couple is going to do. For example, putting pergolas on all the balconies, so these spaces become more usable. A paint job, definitely. But the floors? One of the consequences of uprooting the tiles upstairs is that the large wooden closet in our bedroom, customed designed to fit the space, would have to be jettisoned. Why would you want to do that? That’s one item you’d definitely want to keep. I guess not.

(I kept thinking of the trauma our poor neighbors will have to endure. We’ve already had to endure the renovation of the apartment below us, newly purchased and in terrible condition from years of being rented out – hence neglected – by the previous owners, culminating in a year of being home to an ever-changing crew of Chinese workers, who were quiet but not as tidy as a landlord would hope for. Two months of banging and drilling, tearing everything out, installing, and fixing, day in and day out. All day. Six days a week. And just when you hoped they were done, they’d start up again. Even after the new owners moved in, there was more to be done. STOP ALREADY! It’s not my apartment, and it’s not my money, and I hate to exhibit signs of disapproval, but… Perhaps they went a tad overboard in redoing their new apartment, as in ‘more is not enough.’ There’s only so much anyone can do in a small space. Or is there?)

Our buyer and his two buddies were going through our apartment taking measurements, although we could have shown them the original floor plans we were given when we bought the place. Barbara was paying attention to the flow of their conversation in that other language. She told me later that they were planning on placing the new balatot on top of the existing ones, which, if nothing else, would certainly cut down on the noise and the commotion. It took me some time to think about that plan, and then it occurred to me. If they are going to add another layer of tiles, they’ll need to reconfigure all the doors in the apartment as well, because otherwise none of them will open and close. Did they think about that? One would hope so, but who knows what their plan is. One thing we do know: it’s not our problem, no matter what they do.

There’s one thing de Tocqueville would have noticed right off the bat. Every Israeli is an expert in whatever is on the table. There is a certain usefulness in that attitude – up to a point. There are times when you have to do something, as in, you’re in the middle of a battle and your tank won’t start up. Well, fix the problem, even if you don’t know how, because you don’t know that you don’t know how and there’s no one else to ask who does know how – if that makes any sense. But I’m not convinced that this is the best way to go through life when there are people who do know how. (I’m thinking, Tomer Peretz, if you want to make your abode a thing of beauty.)

What would de Tocqueville have made of all this doing and redoing, knowing and not knowing? I’m not sure I understand it either; it’s not what I was brought up with when a new paint job in your apartment was a big deal, and you knew when you needed it. But it is what it is here in The Land. (That’s not much of an ending, but I can’t think of anything else to say. Feel free to chime in; I’m all ears.)

(In case you’re wondering: our lawyer is waiting for some papers from the building contractor before we can proceed with our buying THE apartment. When that happens, you’ll be kept in the loop – I promise.)